Lightning
by Menthol Pixie
Summary: Sammy doesn't make sense. That's just a fact of life, like the sky is blue and witches are gross.


**Lightning**

Summary: Sammy doesn't make sense. That's just a fact of life, like _the sky is blue_ and _witches are gross_.

XXX

"I've been struck by lightning six times." Sam flinches at Dean's hand on his shoulder, sinking his fingers into the blankets beneath him and gripping tight, like he needs to hold on or he might fall off the edge of the bed. "Six times." He frowns down at his bare feet, toes curling in the carpet. "Six hundred and sixty-six times."

"That's a lot," Dean says. He wonders whether that's the correct response. Is he supposed to tell Sam that he hasn't actually been struck by lightening six hundred and sixty-six times? Try to break through some of the delusion or psychosis or whatever this is? It's easier just to go with it but he can't help but wonder whether he's doing more harm than good. Can't help but wonder whether he's doing _any_ good. "But I don't see what it has to do with your t-shirt."

Sam draws away from Dean's reaching arms again and looks up at him reproachfully. "Be careful of the snakes. They bite but I don't want you to hurt them."

"I won't hurt any snakes, Sammy," Dean promises wearily. "You just need to get your t-shirt on, okay?" He holds the garment up in demonstration. "Head goes through this hole and your arms through these ones, see? Like me." He gestures to his own chest and the t-shirt spread over it, and damn, he feels like an idiot explaining how to put on a stupid t-shirt like Sam's a two year old. Actually, he doesn't think he had this much trouble getting two year old Sammy dressed, but then, this isn't two year old Sam, this is two hundred year old Sam with decades of Cage memories crammed inside a mind that clearly can't deal with them.

Sam regards the t-shirt suspiciously. His hair is still wet from the bath, hanging in rats-tails around his neck, dripping onto his bare shoulders. For a moment, Dean wonders if the sensation of his wet hair is where Sammy got the snakes from, but then he'd need to wonder what the lightening means and going down the rabbit hole of Sammy's ramblings is too much to ask this early in the morning. Sammy doesn't make sense. That's just a fact of life, like _the sky is blue_ and _witches are gross_.

"Will I still be able to move?" Sam asks, narrowed eyes moving from the shirt to Dean's face, hands still clenched tight in the blankets.

"In a t-shirt? Of course. Look, I'm wearing one and I can move." Dean stretches his arms out and waves them a little, feeling like a moron, but Sam studies his movements seriously and finally, he nods.

"Okay, but don't get bitten," Sam warns him. "They don't like strangers."

"I'm not a stranger," Dean says, carefully manhandling his brother into the shirt, hoping like hell that he doesn't hurt any imaginary snakes, trying to ignore the dull ache Sam's words kindle in his gut. Does Sam even know him? He finds Sam's eyes as he guides arms through sleeves. "I'm Dean, remember?"

"I don't like strangers," Sam says. "I might have to bite them."

Well, that's just unsettling. Dean can't stop himself from drawing back a little. He doesn't think Sam would deliberately try to hurt him, or anyone else – the only person Sam seems inclined to injure is himself – but he can't deny that the kid is unpredictable. He can't even be certain that Sam knows who he is or where they are or what's going on so how can he be sure that the kid won't suddenly turn one of his freak outs on the people around him? Whether he means to or not, Sam's still capable of causing some serious damage if he puts his mind to it. The bandage wrapped around the gash he tore into his own wrist with his teeth and nails last week is testament to that.

"You don't have to bite anyone, Sammy," Dean says, putting as much reassurance as he can into his tone. "You're safe here."

"I'm not going to bite anyone," Sam says, giving Dean a look that seems stunned that he'd suggest such a thing.

Dean is getting a headache. He blows out a sigh, thoughts roaming towards the flask of whiskey tucked into his duffel. "Okay. Good. No biting."

He's just tired. Tired of waiting and hoping and the damn uncertainty of it all, tired of intrusive thoughts that wonder _what if this is it forever_? What if Sammy never gets better? He swore he would deal with the consequences of re-housing Sam's ruined soul and he fucking will, just watch him, but... but it's been weeks. Sam's here but he's not and Dean's starting to think that he might never get his brother back.

"Snakes swallow their prey whole," Sam offers.

"They do," Dean agrees vaguely, pushing aside thoughts of a drink and running through his mental to-do list. It's pretty basic, because even the simplest things can be an ordeal with Sam, but he tries to keep to a routine, tries to keep everything predictable. He tells himself that this world, the real world outside the Cage, is all new for Sam (or at least, a distant memory, if the kid remembers at all) and that's got to be scary, right? That's got to be overwhelming and confusing and maybe, if Dean can just keep things calm, Sam will eventually stop freaking out over wallpaper and shower curtains and just... get better, somehow. "So we're awake, clean, and dressed. You want breakfast?"

"I want the stars to stop exploding."

Dean shouldn't drink whiskey before breakfast. He shouldn't. Even if it's sitting _right there_ and who's going to stop him? _Sam_? Yeah, right. "...I don't think I know how to do that. Sorry, Sammy."

"You can't stop it," Sam explains earnestly. "It doesn't ever stop. There are supernovas in my eyes _all_ the time."

 _You can't stop it_. Dean is just so, so tired. He misses Sam so, so much. And there's nothing he can do apart from try to get through another fucked up day.

"Do they stop you from eating breakfast?" he asks wearily.

Sam is back to clutching at the blankets, pulling them tight in white-knuckled fists at his sides. It's only recently that Sam's stopped insisting on having a wall at his back at all times and if Dean thought Sam looked small pressed into the corners of rooms, it's nothing on how vulnerable he looks without that added barrier, without the muscle of constant training and hunting. He doesn't know why Sam stopped when he seems so tense and anxious without something at his back but Bobby agreed when Dean suggested that it was an improvement. Maybe Sam's starting to trust him a little.

"No," Sam says, "But there's a doorway and I might not be the same person on the other side."

Or maybe Sam's just so crazy he's forgotten about being scared of open spaces.

Dean glances behind him at the door to the hallway, looking as unimposing as ever. "You're worried about going through the door?"

"There's a syndrome," Sam says. "It makes people forget. But where would I go?"

Getting Sam to the bathroom to clean up this morning hadn't been a problem even though they went through the _exact same doorway_. Why now? Why anything with Sam? It would be easier if he could figure out some rhyme and reason but, for the first time in his life, he can't read his brother. He's not sure that his brother's still there.

"You wouldn't go anywhere, Sam. You'd just be on the other side of the door. In the hallway."

"But what about the me on this side? What if he forgets?" Now Sam's shrinking away from the doorway as if it's closing in on him, hands reaching to fist in his hair like he's worried about memories physically leaking out of his scalp, and Dean has been doing this long enough to recognise the signs of an oncoming meltdown unless he does something to stop it.

"How about we just stay on this side then?" he suggests, trying not to sound as frantic as he feels. He's just not sure if he has the energy to deal with a freak out right now. Can't he just have one day of peace? Can't _Sam_ just have one day of peace? "No doorways. Just here. Breakfast in bed."

Sam freezes, pressed against the headboard, and looks slowly down at the bed he's sitting on, then up at Dean. "Am I the breakfast?" he asks suspiciously.

"No!" Dean says, too surprised, too fast, too loud, fuck.

"Nonononono." Sam's off the bed and pressing himself into the corner of the room, jammed into the space between a set of drawers and the wall, fingers clenched tight in his hair.

"Fuck," Dean mutters helplessly. " _Fuck_. No, Sammy, I didn't mean... Sammy, hey..." He tries to slide closer but Sam screams and tries to bury himself in the wall until he backs off, hands raised in surrender.

Great. Great work, Dean. He has the flask of whiskey in his hand without any clear memory of deciding to retrieve it from his duffel. Fuck it, it's five o'clock somewhere, right?

"Everything okay in here?"

Bobby's in the doorway and Sam's in the corner and Dean's deciding on liquor for breakfast so does _anything_ look okay in here?

"He's speaking English today," Dean offers flatly. He unscrews the flask and helps himself to a long gulp, relishing the warmth that spreads down his throat and through his chest.

"I've been struck by lightning six hundred and sixty-six times," Sam murmurs from his corner, and the warmth fades away.

Dean sighs, twisting the cap back onto the flask. Who is he kidding? Whiskey's not going to help. "I know, buddy. That must have sucked."

Sam nods his agreement. He frowns at Bobby curiously. "Are you both when you're in the middle?" he asks.

"In the middle?" Bobby raises as eyebrow, first at Sam, then at Dean.

"He's got something against the doorway," Dean explains. "He thinks he'll forget himself if he goes through it or something. I don't know."

"They're hissing at it," Sam adds.

"Oh and there's snakes apparently." Sam narrows his eyes at Dean's tone but Dean's too tired to censor himself. God, he's tired.

Bobby strokes his beard thoughtfully. "What are you afraid of forgetting, Sam?"

"Where I am," Sam answers immediately, which has Dean jerking around to look at him. Sam hasn't exactly acknowledged his surroundings since getting back. Dean hasn't been sure whether the kid's noticed that he is back. But maybe... maybe he has. Maybe something got through to him.

Dean doesn't know what to say. He's too scared of saying the wrong thing and he's scared that saying nothing is worse. He exchanges a look with Bobby, all too aware that his fear must be written all over his face but he's just too damn wrecked to hide it, too damn desperate to know if Sam's still in there.

Sam tucks his head against the wall. "Sometimes I don't think I'm here," he says. "Every-thing's too bright. There aren't any walls, it's all just acid."

Dean feels himself start to wilt, tentative hope draining away. "I don't understand, Sammy," he says, shaking his head helplessly. "You're not making sense." Sam frowns at him, looking affronted, like this declaration is news to him. "He never makes sense," Dean sighs to Bobby. How can he expect Sam to understand him? Sam and his imaginary snakes and supernovas and doorways that make you forget. Sam is broken. Hell broke something in his head and Dean doesn't know if it can be fixed. He twists the cap off the flask again.

"Impala," Sam says.

Dean almost drops the flask, whiskey splashing over his hands. "What?"

Sam's not looking at him, still tucked against the wall, his eyes clenched shut in concentration. "Impala. Son of a bitch. Winchester. Dean. Dean Dean Dean," Sam recites, with the air of someone who has said these words a thousand times before, an old mantra. He opens his eyes and _looks_ at Dean, really looks, Sam sees him, he knows it, Sam knows _who he is_. "Jerk," Sam finishes, and Dean wants to grab the kid and hug him, would if he didn't think it would trigger a freak out because holy fuck, Sammy _remembers_. Maybe every-thing's jumbled up but it's all still there. And maybe one day they'll be able to sort it all out.

"Holy shit, Sam," Dean manages to say, and Sam screws up his face in disapproval, cocking his head to glare at him until Dean gets it – _Dean gets it, he understands, he understands Sammy_ – and corrects himself.

"Bitch," he says, and when he smiles, Sam smiles back.

END


End file.
